


Firelight

by Vana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-08
Updated: 2013-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 20:22:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1615880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vana/pseuds/Vana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Davos found Stannis naked in front of a fire, and the one time he found him naked in his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firelight

**Author's Note:**

> This premise was prompted by crossingwinter when I was stuck for ideas!

**i.**

The fires in the Storm's End bath chambers were roaring, and the atmosphere was almost orgiastic as once-starved men crowded the steaming pools, shouting and splashing. Storm's End was saved, and its men were ebullient. Davos was among them, washing the sea-salt away and enjoying the hot water and the echoing banter. He soaked for a long time, then got up to warm himself by the fire — and found himself catching a glimpse of the lord of Storm's End, Stannis Baratheon, who stood apart and glowering, scowling into the flames. His ribs were still visible under his skin, his arms were corded, the tendons of his neck stood out as if in anger, and his hip bones jutted out above his thin buttocks ... Davos stopped, aghast, realizing he had been staring. He averted his eyes, but it was too late — Stannis had caught his gaze, and for the briefest moment held it before turning abruptly away.

**ii.**

From Dragonstone, that lonely spear in the middle of the sea, the Targaryen babes had fled as if a strange bird had come and lifted them in the night. Davos had been on hand when Stannis had delivered the news to his brother, and had had to clench up his fists — whole and maimed — to keep from striking the king and thereby striking off his own head, and probably Stannis' in the bargain. That night, Davos went to Stannis' chamber to ... what? To confess his own rage? To comfort his liege lord? To insist once again that Stannis had done all he could? 

But he did not knock, and when he arrived Stannis was standing before his fire, as naked as his name day, with Maester Cressen tending to a gash on his thigh. 

"What happened?" Davos blurted, before remembering his place. "My lord. Maester Cressen," he addressed them both with a bow. "Are you hurt, my lord?"

"I am fine, Davos, thank you," said Stannis curtly, through gritted teeth. 

"Playing at swords in the courtyard like when you were a child," Cressen scolded. "And you were in such a temper as I've never seen, you weren't careful, and now you see what that leads to."

"I'm _fine_ ," Stannis ground out again. Before Cressen could argue further, Davos saw himself out.

**iii.**

During the Greyjoy Rebellion, the ships reeled on the roiling waves and the men aboard cared little of modesty or cleanliness, only of staying warm. Belowdecks there was a small fire and a tub around which the sailors clustered, half-dressed, washing out their sea-sodden clothing and warming their saltwater-wrinkled hands and feet. Stannis was just one of many, Davos another, in the dim red space where the flames danced against the barrels and rolled-up sails. But Davos knew that if he did not stop looking at Stannis — the rail-thinness after Storm's End replaced by a healthy sinew — he might never stop, and worse, his body would tell. With a sigh that was half resignation, half frustration, he went to his hammock with his cloak, caked with seaweed and sand, and his dreams, soaked in the skin of Stannis. They emerged from the battle victorious, and then a fire-god came.

**iv.**

He had seen the bodies of women other than his wife, but none at once so red and white as the priestess Melisandre. Davos let out a small, instinctive gasp when he saw his king, the true king, and the red woman naked in front of a pit of fire — not entwined, but neither separate. _Selyse_ , Davos thought. How could he dishonor his wife in this way? How could he break his vows? _How could he break them with someone besides me_ , was the creeping thought that sneaked into the back of his mind. Melisandre was so pale she glowed, but it was Stannis he could not tear his eyes from — Stannis, in front of whom Melisandre knelt, performing prayer or another kind of worship, her red hair hiding her face. The king stared into the fire, muscles as rigid as stone. Davos could not move. Then came her voice. 

"The god and the king are one," she said, chanted, sang — to Stannis, to Davos, to herself. "Soon you will see. Soon you will know. The king and the god and the flesh and the fire."

**v.**

"Your Grace." Davos didn't even bother to blush. He was beginning to think a mischievous god — the Smith? the Maiden? A rogue Old God of the trees? R'hllor, the god of fires? — was starting to put them in these situations. He could make his mind forget that this wasn't normal, but his body was another story: in the end, he did have to turn away from his king to avoid once again betraying his desire. He read once again the raven from the North, where the boy Rickon Stark — a young man now, but he would always be the wild young boy Davos had found on Skagos — wrote that he was hosting the Queen of the Iron Islands and her retinue. 

"Asha will arrive in a fortnight," he read to the window while he waited for his king to finish dressing himself. Surely he would be in a tunic and breeches by now, or perhaps just his breeches, with the trail of hair that Davos could never entirely forget running from his still-sculpted abdomen down to the waistband. "Asha will arrive in a—" 

"Fortnight, Lord Davos," Stannis' voice was amused. "You read that sentence to me already." 

"My pardons, Your Grace," Davos said, his face reddening now, not due to the state in which he found his king but in embarrassment at his blunder. It had been a long time since he had erred in a reading. Even with his heart pounding and skin tingling with proximity to Stannis, he could not quite forgive himself that.

**vi.**

Davos felt old, older than his considerable years, as he made his way late down the corridor to his bedchamber. Old, and yet less wise. He had spent too many years at court and mourned too many dead — his family, his wife, his soldiers, and his king. Oh, Stannis had not died. He had only ceased to live, for many months now. He carried out the duties of a peacetime king. But he did not seem to take pleasure in the reign — or in anything. Davos had stopped thinking about it. Duty was done, and he expected he would never sail again, or see his king smile slightly in the dancing firelight of a rough castle.

He opened his door, then backed half out of it in confusion. Someone was in his bed. Had he come to the wrong room? The fire burned low, too dim to see what was happening. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that — no, this could not be — but it was. Stannis was in his bed, wrapped in Davos' rough furs, and Davos could not make sense of it.

"Your Grace?" he asked, ever considering his king's well-being. "Is something amiss?"

"Davos," Stannis said in answer. It was he; it was his voice. And it was his face. And it was his body, revealing itself from underneath the covers. It was Stannis entirely, whom Davos had dreamt of for so many years, but now that he was here Davos was at a loss. 

"Come to me," Stannis said, his voice a burst of flame in the dark room. Still Davos stood rooted to the spot. 

"Must I command you? Or will you not come willingly?" And willingly, finally, he did.


End file.
